The Prince of Powys

The Prince of Powys

By

Cornelia Amiri

Eternal Press

A division of Damnation Books, LLC.

P.O. Box 3931

Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

www.eternalpress.biz

The Prince of Powys

by Cornelia Amiri

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-582-3

Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-583-0

Cover art by: Amanda Kelsey

Edited by: Pamela Hopkins

Copyedited by: Kim Richards

Copyright 2012 Cornelia Amiri

Printed in the United States of America

Printed in the United States of America

Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

1st North American, Australian and UK Print

Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may

be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any

form, including digital and electronic or

mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and

retrieval system, without the prior written

consent of the Publisher, except for brief

quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters,

names, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are

used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any

actual persons, living or dead, events, or

locales is entirely coincidental.

I dedicate this book to Lindsay Elizabeth Fehr,

a princess in her own right as she holds all the

qualities and characteristics of majesty. This

book is for you, Lindsay. I hope you like it.

In acknowledgment of their dedication,

consideration, hard work, and talent I want to

thank the entire Eternal Press staff and my

fantastic editor, Pamela Hopkins and the

amazingly talented Cover Artist, Amanda

Kelsey. This book wouldn’t be the same

without them.

Chapter One

The Kingdom of Mercia, England, 756 AD

The horse flexed and bunched its muscles beneath him.

Nausea rose in Blaise’s throat at the stench of human blood.

Mustering his resolve, he raised the oval shield, blocking an

endless hail of arrows while he swung the long silver blade to and fro, cutting down Saxons.

His father sent him to the border vilage to stop the bloodshed.

Instead, he got caught up in the fury and led the charge against

Mercia. Death surrounded him. “God’s teeth; get me out of this

alive.”

His eardrums rang with the staggering high-pitched squeal of

his horse as he glanced at the black spear impaled in the

colapsing steed’s chest. He tossed his long sword to the ground,

then tucked his legs in and fel as he’d been trained. He hit the

ground, tumbled forward and stood. His heart plummeted as he

gazed upon the horse quivering in a death spasm. Blaise’s chest

and bely clenched with a heavy sadness, but he didn’t have time

to mourn the noble beast’s passing.

Grabbing his sword off the ground, he pivoted, swinging hard

at a blur of a man. A crimson puddle soaked the Saxon’s tunic

as he slumped to the dirt with a hard thud.

Blaise rushed forward sword his raised. His blade clashed

with that of a Saxon, sparks flying. By sidestepping his foe’s

swing, he moved in and made a clean stab through the chest. He

withdrew his blade as the body fel. Fevered with bloodlust, he

swung his sword with a mad fury. Suddenly, an arrow struck

him.

As he moaned and stumbled back from the impact, a ruthless

pain sliced through his chest. His upper body was on fire. The

pain tore his breath into jagged gasps. He grasped the arrow

piercing his chest, puling at it and breaking it off in his hand. The spade and half the shaft remained impaled in his flesh just a finger span from his heart.

His insides turned over as wet blood seeped through his tunic,

chiling him to the brink of quivering. With no time to tend his

wound, he tightened his hold on the hilt of his sword and swung

forward. Weakened, he lost his grip and the sword hit the

ground. Blaise colapsed and crashed onto the scarlet-stained

soil. Though conscious, he couldn’t lift his head to watch the

soil. Though conscious, he couldn’t lift his head to watch the

battle or see anything.

“God, don’t let me die.” He imagined his father’s face in the

dirt. Two bright-blue eyes peeked out from bushy flame-red hair

above a long mustache.
Father, forgive me. You bade me

prevent all this.

What had he done? He felt like an addle-headed fool. He was

supposed to calm the vilagers. It wasn’t the right time for Powys

to make a move against Mercia. This was the first, and sure to

be the last, mission his father would send him on.

Blaise twitched his nose at the acidic stench of blood clinging

to the air. In a groggy state, dazed from his wound, he felt a tug at his neck. Someone turned him over. Easing his gaze into a

narrow squint, he caught a blurred image of three Saxons peering

down at him.

“This one wears a torque.”

“Ah, what have we here?”

“It’s Elisedd’s son, it is.”

“Bring him to King Ethelbald.”

Blaise could not hold back a blood-curdling scream as a

Saxon reached down and yanked out the arrow. He trembled

with pain as they squeezed a rag to his wound to stop the

bleeding. After hearing the sound of ripped cloth, strips of

someone’s torn tunic were wrapped around him tight to keep the

makeshift bandage in place. They puled him to his feet, but his

knees gave way. Blaise gritted his teeth against the bone-jarring

pain as he hit the ground. The clumsy attempts at making him

stand caused his muscles and head to throb. Dragging him to a

horse, they flung him upon it like a sack of grain. Each jolt of the trotting steed inflamed the painful sensation of fire and ice

ravaging his chest.

The Saxon reined his horse to a stop, dismounted and puled

Blaise to the ground. Gripping him by his shoulders, two Saxons

dragged him into the great hal. He swore and cursed al the way

but no one cared. They came to a sudden halt before the dais of

King Ethelbald.

The balding King of Mercia stepped forward and cupped

Blaise’s chin as he stared at him with large pale-blue eyes. He

bunched his gold brows together. “The great Elisedd sends his

youngest son to battle me with naught but a band of vilagers?”

Blaise’s reckless actions were the reason for his capture and

Blaise’s reckless actions were the reason for his capture and

had nothing to do with his sire. To hide his shame, he scoffed, “A handful of Powys vilagers are a fair match for a hundred wel-armed Saxons, soft and lazy as you are.”

Ethelbald eyes flickered with rage for a brief moment, and

then he laughed heartily. “You are Elisedd’s son.” He withdrew

his hand from Blaise’s face. “Your father wears a special crown,

fashioned from links of twisted gold. Surely I, King of Mercia,

have such a chain fitting for the adornment of a Welsh Prince.”

The tal, stiff-muscled King turned to his guards. “Take him to

the hearth where the other dogs lie. Wrap a chain around the end

of his torque and fasten the other end to the wal of the hearth.

That wil keep the cur in his place.” Ethelbald swung his head

back to Blaise and flashed a toothy grin. “I fear the links are not forged of gold but you wil find them sturdy and wel-made.”

As the guards dragged Blaise to the hearth, they kicked aside

one of the yapping hounds. Even with the arrow stil in his chest,

he was chained to the gray, soot-covered fireplace.

God’s teeth, I should have listened to my father
. He fixed a hard gaze upon Ethelbald. Blaise learned as a child in the

practice yard of Dinas Bran to show no sign of pain or fear, lest

his father scowl and his elder brother taunt him. He would not

reveal that his gashed chest throbbed and his head reeled with

grogginess.

The Saxon King neared the hearth. “I want Elisedd of Powys.

If you were merely kept hostage in a fashion of hospitality your

sire would bide his time.” As he hovered about Blaise, the stench

of his sour mead-breath weakened the Prince’s already queasy

stomach.

“When he hears I have chained you like a dog and wil not

feed you, then he wil come,” Ethelbald threatened with a baleful

glare. “I wil finaly be able to fight on my terms, not in the green bogs of the marshland, nor that unbreachable castle of Dinas

Bran. Here, in Mercia, I wil put an end to Elisedd of Powys.”

“You are not man enough to kil a Powys King,” Blaise

chalenged in a cold, steady tone.

“Father?”

Blaise glanced toward the sound of a sweet voice. Glistening

flaxen hair framed a soft face, sparkling blue eyes and a smal

turned-up nose. Ethelbald’s daughter.

turned-up nose. Ethelbald’s daughter.

She glided over to Blaise and laid her hand on his shoulder.

“You are wounded.” Hands on hips, she turned to Ethelbald.

“Sire, it’s my duty to tend his battle scars. In truth, when I am

taken from Mercia, there wil be no one to care for the

wounded.”

“Daughter, do not speak of this now,” Ethelbald warned in a

sharp tone.

After a dramatic toss of her head, she flashed Ethelbald a

seething, tight-lipped glare. “Is he not a Prince of Powys?”

“Yes, he’s Elisedd’s youngest get.”

“Then I wil tend him. Now.” She glanced at the prisoner.

“What is your name?”

“I am Bleheris map Elisedd map Gwylog.” He peered at her

creamy skin, impish nose and sparkling eyes. “They cal me